


Though Death Be More Kind

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8056417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Karen Page lands herself in hospital now that a part of her past's caught up with her. Frank Castle isn't about to let her out of his sight.





	Though Death Be More Kind

She wakes to pain.

It's the first coherent sensation inside of her body. Not the white-hot sear of a burn or cut, nor the throbbing mess of bruises. This ache is dull within her stomach, weary in her bones, assaulting her from her head to all ten of her toes.

She knows she still has ten toes, because it's the first thing she always checks upon waking.

There's a pain behind her eyes that's short and stabbing as she opens them. She winces and almost recoils in a hiss from the merciless light around her.

 _Karen Page at her most vampiric,_ she thinks to herself with a snort. Thanks her lucky stars seconds later because she's remembered both her name and her fierce dislike for hospital lighting in one go. Memory's still good.

She knows she's in hospital before the smell of antibacterial soap even invades her nostrils. The lighting's too unforgiving to be anything else. She half-wonders if any blondes think about the relentless glare that makes them look dead before they sign up to be doctors, nurses, or even volunteers. Couple that zombie-fying light with pristine white sheets and you've got yourself a horror story.

She's lived more than her fair share of that.

Rolling her head around on the pillow hurts like a son of a bitch. She swears out loud as she tries to raise it off that too-fluffed-up thing and fails miserably. Great. Just peachy. Between that and the damn needle in her arm, it looks like she's not going anywhere.

She fucking _hates_ needles.

Hates them just a little bit less when her eyes register the bruises on her arms and her belly protests at her movements. Ouch. She wrinkles her nose in distaste. _Great job, Karen._ Get her ass beat up in some backalley by some thugs whose only concerns were sending a message and saving her pretty face. Not that she isn't grateful that she's still got all her teeth, but feeling like several trucks drove over the rest of her body isn't exactly something that inspires a good mood.

She's pretty sure she passed out somewhere between what felt like kick number five-hundred and sounded like taunt number thousand. She's convinced the three assholes tried to get to a thousand there, anyway, though most of their words were angry slurs and not really something she took most seriously. She supposes that was half her problem. Not taking wannabe badasses seriously. Should've dialed down on the quips and _definitely_ dialed down on the mace.

She vows she's never wearing high heels again, though they are very satisfying when trying to stab somebody in the throat with them. Scratch that. She's never wearing cheap thin heels again. Next heels she wears are going to be two paychecks worth of head-bashing goodness. She feels a little better now that that's been decided.

There's a small noise in the far-end corner of the room and for a second she feels something claw at her throat that hasn't been there in a hell of a long time. It takes a second before she realises that the thing mixing in with the metallic twang in her mouth tastes a hell of a lot like fear. Well, shit. An adrenaline spike in a hospital bed while halfway to sedated isn't her idea of a good time.

It only crosses her mind later that the relentless urge to fight reminds her she's not going to die peacefully in this lifetime.

"You're at Met-General," a low voice somewhere to her left tells her, "and the doctors said you can't get out of bed just yet."

"Fuck the doctors," she grunts as she grabs a hold of the sides of the bed and pushes herself a little more upright. She'd know that voice anywhere. She's not here for everything that comes with it. Isn't ready for anything of that sort. "I'm not going to die in here."

When Frank Castle steps out of the shadows, all she can do is pause and stare for a second. His brow's furrowed as he looks her up and down. Dark eyes are still too knowing, the set of his jaw still too much like her own, the tension in his shoulders still halfway to a fight he can't put a name to just yet. He's dressed in greens and greys and for once doesn't look like he lost several fights with a door.

She sinks back into the bed slighly. Her deathgrip on the bed doesn't change. She needs to have something to hold onto. Something to remind her that this is real and not just some figment of her imagination. She blinks as she takes him in. He doesn't look dead, which she supposes is a definite plus on the scale of sanity that's slowly slipping away from her.

"Are you sure they didn't put a hallucinogen in my IV?" she asks him moments later. Girl's gotta check. "Could've sworn you were dead. It's been months, Frank. _Months._ " She tries not to sound too bitter. Is quite certain she's failing miserably at that. Shrugs her shoulders -- _ouch_ \-- and moves on. "So, what, a girl's gotta land herself in hospital for you to pay a visit and go 'hi this is me I'm not dead and oh by the way thank you for that nice gift that included the hotshot boss of a motorcycle gang served up to me on a silver platter'?"

She's not too sure of it in hindsight, but at the moment she would swear that he looks almost bashful in response to her inquiry. She's aware it came out a little more venomous than it should've. Not at all like the soft voice she'd practiced once, or twice, or well really about a hundred times back when it felt like he was going to walk right back into her life. Not that she's ever going to admit to that.

"It's really me," he tells her, and she almost scoffs in reply. She can see that. His voice drops even lower as he edges closer to her bed. He comes to stand still at her feet. "Now, what on earth did you do to incur the wrath of Fisk's lowlife followers?"

She smiles viciously at him. Feels proud of herself now that he's confirmed they were really Fisk's and not some criminals looking to instill fear in her through another's name. One of her fingers drums an anxious rhythm on the bedsheets. "I'm writing a massive piece on Fisk's dealings," she admits, "that will hopefully be enough to get him transferred to another facility that is less compromising when it comes to wannabe kingpins." She refers to the large man as a wannabe because, well, it sets her mind at ease. Despite what Matt and Foggy say about that. Not that she listens to Matt anymore. _Fuck no._ "That, and there's bad blood between us. I'm sure he's had plenty of time to think about what he's going to do once he gets his hands on me." She swallows thickly. Cringes away from her own thoughts. "Guess tonight was a warm-up."

"Why you?"

"What?"

"Why's he coming after you, bothering with you, when he's got Red and all the rest of us to worry about?" Frank's clarification is blunt and to-the-point. She knows it doesn't make sense to him. "Do you have a death wish, ma'am?"

If she examines her own thoughts closely enough, which she's not in the habit of doing anymore, she knows she'll find the glint of Wesley's glasses and the feeling that she'll never be clean again. She shakes her head, though it hurts to move it back and forth like that. She doesn't think it a death wish. Never really asked to be thrown into Hell's Kitchen only to find that it's a gaping pit with teeth and claws that she can't get away from. Never really asked to be that person that death follows around. Sometimes, she thinks death likes to wear her heels too.

"Personal business," she whispers. Closes her eyes briefly. Opens them again. Takes a deep breath. "I killed his right-hand man. Didn't have a choice. Him or me. I took the shot." After this long, she can admit it out loud without having her voice tremble. She's strangely proud of that. "Fisk tried to pin it on Matt, but he didn't realise at first that Matt doesn't kill. Doesn't _understand_ why he doesn't kill. I'm not sure when his attention turned to me." She offers him a wry smile. "Maybe I hung out with you too much and got too much press since then to be thought of as a simple secretary. Low profiles aren't my thing."

He looks almost pained, now. "They should be mandatory for you unless you want to end up in hospital every time you mortally offend someone, ma'am." He can't seem to cut the polite address out of his words any more than she can stop staring at him. "Good on you for plugging the exact guy Fisk relied on, though. Don't think it's a great loss to humanity."

"It really isn't," she offers with a slight laugh. It's more nervous than she wants it to be. "I do think that's why they came after me, though." Suddenly, a sick realisation shoots through her and she almost jolts upright for it entirely. "W-what happened to them?"

He shoots her a look that's midway between exasperation and deliberation. Oh. Of course. She should've known. Why else would he be here? Frank Castle probably doesn't keep an eye on hospitals otherwise. Probably has better things to do than be in someone's hospital room waiting for them to come to their senses. Of course he's the one who brought her in.

"Thank you." She whispers her gratitude and winces as it comes out sounding a lot hoarser than what she's used to. Her chest aches. "It's a bit of a reprieve. He'll try again. Scare me into submission and then finish the job."

"Don't let him."

She knows he wants to say more, but the door to her room just opened and her bedside conversation isn't exactly about flowers and happy things. An older nurse with a no-nonsense air and a new IV in her hands bustles into the room. Karen's aware she's staring at the woman. Gauging how much of a threat she is before settling on a 'just doing her job'.

She almost hates what her life's become.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" The nurse is all New York and business in her talk. Professional and just a little too coarse to be entirely smooth. "I already told your husband you'd be waking soon. That was a nasty business that landed you in here. Gang initiations.." The woman clucks her tongue. "We'll patch you up all right, though, don't you worry."

Karen frowns. Looks over the woman's shoulder now that she's busying herself with the IV. Mouths " _husband??_ " at a sheepish-looking Frank. What on earth.. She huffs a little bit to herself. Husband. That ain't right. Husband is what he was to Maria. Husband is what he was before he met her. Karen Page is not the marrying type, but more than that.. It takes a while before she identifies what she's feeling as guilt. Shoves it away into the same place she's shoved the diner and everything else. _Shut up, Karen._

"Thanks," she breathes at the nurse when the new IV's all set. Pauses. Can't help herself. "When do you think they'll let me out of here?"

The nurse laughs heartily. "Your husband already said you're a feisty one. Tough to sit still, huh? You'll be out after a night of observation. Most of you is just bruises and some scrapes, but you've got a bit of a nasty concussion. Gotta make sure your head's good to go. Gotta check if there's really no internal bleeding we missed, either." The nurse nods at Frank. "Let him take care of you, okay? His nervous hovering was making me sick."

With that grand announcement, the woman takes her leave again. It takes all of two seconds after the door swings shut for Karen to hiss out a "what the _fuck_ " that really encompasses the entirety of what she's feeling right now. She begins to laugh at the way his brow knits together and he looks so nervous and un-Frank-like that it's killing her, but stops the laughter abruptly at her ribs' protest. Not a good idea then. She scowls.

"You needed a cover story. I needed one for my cuts and bruises, too. Can't have them thinking we went at each other like rabid animals," he tells her in a low rumble. "As far as anyone in this hospital's concerned, you're my wife and you and I got jumped by a couple of wannabe gangsters on our way home. I managed to haul you to safety and will be pressing charges come morning."

"Doesn't it bother you?" she asks. At his puzzled look, she sighs. "The wife-thing."

"Wouldn't offer it up about you if it felt wrong, ma'am."

His words hover in the air between them for a while. She blinks slowly at them. Is that where things are? Is that who they are? Her heart hammers in her throat. She's suddenly grateful they didn't hook her up to a heartrate monitor, because she's pretty damn certain the nurse would come back under the impression that Karen was suffering an abrupt heart attack.

The hand on her ankle startles her, but she doesn't pull away. His warmth seeps through the thin hospital sheet. His eyes are softer than she remembers them being. She reminds herself to breathe. He pulls away and moves to the chair that's next to her bed. She turns her head to the right to face him.

"You should get some rest," is all he says. "I'll take you home tomorrow."

*

She's not sure how long she silently watched him before she fell asleep. He kept his gaze trained on her face the entire time. One of the things she likes most about Frank is his silence. Other people always seem to want to fill it needlessly and aimlessly with chatter that never quite concerns her. They try to fill the silence with themselves, almost as if they are worried she'll forget about them in the quiet. Not Frank. He is almost small in the space he occupies in the room.

She thinks to herself he's the least threatening person she's ever met. Wonders if there's something seriously wrong with her now that she's thought that about him. Yet, well, the Punisher only really deals with criminals. He makes sure that's what people are before he ever pulls a trigger. She's been many, many things in her life. Criminal isn't really one of them, unless one counts one too many cookie jar runs and some speeding with the car.

She's not sure when she discounted her own kills as being criminal in nature, though she supposes that's all she can do to stay sane. She's not the person Frank needs to hunt down. If anything, she thinks, she may be the only person he would have issue hunting. She's not sure on that. It's just how it feels in the space between them. It's how it feels when his hand now rests a mere inch away from her own and she sees him at peace. Sees the man he was before the world caught up with him the way it caught up with her.

Almost as if he can sense her staring, his eyes flutter open and fix on hers. He's not groggy with sleep like she is, though she suspects that his sleep has never been deep since Kandahar. She smiles at him reassuringly. Wonders how it is that he's now seated so close to her when there was more distance between them before. He must've moved in the duration of the night.

"How come they let you stay?" she frowns at him. "Normally, hospitals don't tolerate that."

"You have your friend to thank for that. Nelson's a jittery individual, but he sure as hell knows how to land an impression on the nursing staff." Frank's tone is wry as he speaks. She frowns even more. Foggy? What on earth does Foggy have to do with this? Almost as if to brush aside her confusion, he sets out to clarify. "I called him from one of the payphones as soon as the doctors had determined the extent of your injuries. He expressed a number of what I think were swearwords -- I wasn't aware anyone on this planet still used 'fudge' -- before calling in some very local favours in this hospital that got me to stay."

"He must've freaked out at hearing your voice," she remarks with a slight smile. Foggy's always been jumpy around Frank. More so than she ever was, more so than Matt would ever be. "That's nice of him, though."

"His concern for your safety makes me a necessary evil in his book."

She can't exactly argue with that. The pressure behind her eyelids has abated somewhat in the past few hours. She breathes a sigh of relief at being able to lift her head slightly without it hurting. The victory of progress. She's always mended rather quickly. Injuries don't last long in the land of Page and cream.

"Can I go home today?" she asks him. "I feel a little less icky."

He chuckles at her description before shaking his head. "Nelson said they're watching your apartment. He had a friend of his stake it out tonight. Called me this morning saying there's no way you can go back to it right now." He pauses. "I think they'll let you go today, but Nelson thought it's best you stick with me for a little while at least."

She snorts in response. That's just peachy. Be out like a light for a couple of hours and Foggy's already making her decisions for her. Frank can't help the earful she's going to give Foggy when she gets out of here, though, so she refrains from an angry mutter about what she'd like to do to the avocado at law. It finally registers that he hasn't said whether he agrees with Foggy on that count at all.

"What do you think?" she asks him moments later. "I know you probably have better things to do than babysit a journalist who's been a pain in your ass since you picked up your guns.."

"Ma'am, if you think I'm going to let you walk out of here and let Fisk get his grubby paws on you," he huffs at her, "you don't know me at all. It's fine. You're coming home with me."

She feels almost strangely elated over that as she sinks back into her pillows. She's still ma'am to him after all this time. He clips it at her, fusses it at her, respects her with it even after she declared him dead. It's funny to her that all the times she spent over the past months wishing to retract her shouts at him in the woods don't seem to matter between them. They've settled into a routine that's as familiar as his trial walkthrough.

There's a peace inside of her that is occupied with all the spaces Frank's shared with her. She clamps down on it, hard. Tells herself a _no_ over and over again.

His hand brushes hers a moment as he rises to his feet, and it becomes a deafening _yes_ instead.

*

It's been three weeks since she landed herself in the hospital. The bruises and overwhelming feeling of tiredness have faded into the background. Her head took a little longer to be put right. Coffee's helped. So has the company.

She glances over her shoulder and looks at him. He's spread out on the mattress, arms wide, face up to the ceiling. He seems dead to the world, but she can see the tension in his belly that tells her he's still awake. The only time he relaxes fully is when he's too tired to argue with himself or with her.

It's the third place they've stayed at in these past weeks. He's kept them on the move, unwilling to be caught off-guard in complacence. Her wardrobe's come to reflect the sensibility of being on the run. She tugs her sweater's sleeves over her hands reflexively. This city wants to eat her alive for her transgressions. He's the only thing standing between her and the gaping mouth of death.

She swears she'll not go quietly.

"What's on your mind?" His voice interrupts her fleeting darkness the way it always seems to lately, puncturing her fear with the anchor of reality. "Something in those papers catch your eye?"

She glances down at her lap. Shakes her head. The papers he stole are full of solid information about Fisk and his machinations, but she thinks she can't read another word without feeling like the world's about to swallow her whole. "Just thinking," she tells him. Somehow, that's not enough to say. She takes a deep breath. "I can't look at these anymore tonight."

"Then don't."

He raises his head slightly. Motions for her to put the papers away. She clips them neatly and puts them on the floor in front of her. Turns back to face him. There is something in his face and gesture to come closer that she can't quite decipher. It sends a sharp, searing thrill through her body. She shivers from it.

"Next time, we're picking a place with central heating," she tells him in a voice that tells him not to argue with her over that. She's sure that once she leaves here, she'll never really be warm again. Or maybe that's just the ice of her demons that refuse to fade into the background noise. Hell is cold, this much she knows. "Not that you need it."

He makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat. She crawls over to the space he occupies. Warmth radiates off his body and pierces her skin the closer she gets. With a sigh, she drops down next to him and turns on her side. She wants to look at him. Get a feel for his reactions. She's learning to read him the way he can read her. Wonders at why he's letting her, though he doesn't always seem to notice he's doing it.

His body shifts on the mattress. His left arm brushes against her upper back reassuringly as he turns to face her. He grimaces when her icy feet touch the warmth of his own. She can't help but giggle at that. The resulting frown is always worth the cold she feels throughout the day. She likes watching him react.

Every once in a while, though, he surprises her with something new.

The 'something new' this time is his right arm coming to rest across her waist. She goes perfectly still for a second. Breathes in this new feeling between them. He's always so careful with his touches in a way she never is. She's learned caution around him, sure, but at her heart she is still that person who reaches out first. She's dialed down on that exponentially in an attempt to not scare him away. Lets him make any first move.

Now that he's made one, she can't help but scoot a little closer and lean into him more. His arm settles in the crease of her waist for a moment and it feels so good she almost moans her contentment out loud. There is something entirely new in this touch. It is careful. It's a fragile thing for her to witness. Her heart hammers a steady pace in her throat.

When she tilts her face toward him, she's surprised at his proximity. He's so close she can count all the lashes that frame his eyes, brush the slight stubble on his cheeks, comes nose-to-nose with him in a motion that reminds her of something safe and wonderful all at once.

His breath is hot on her lips. An answering tingle spreads from her mouth to the tips of her toes. She curls into him, legs tangled with his, hand reaching up to the side of his face. He lets out a soft huff of breath. There is an emotion in his eyes she cannot name. Something in his gaze that is at once soft but terrible, fearless and scared at the same time.

She's sure her eyes are his mirror.

Slowly, agonisingly, he closes the last distance between them. His lips press to hers so softly she could swear he is holding back. A featherlight pressure roams over her lips, mirrored by the small pressure of his hand that's now touching the base of her spine. She sighs into the space he leaves her with, making her own fingers light as air at the nape of his neck. Smiles against the curve of his mouth. Presses back a little harder, daring to give him that much of what she needs. Wishes she could curl herself around him and never let go.

He pulls away from her slightly. His gaze is so dark and frenzied upon her that his eyes look as dark as the crows of war. She wonders if her own blue conveys the need to have his lips back on her own. She thinks she'll go mad if this is all there is between them. There's a noise threatening to burst forth from somewhere in the back of her throat. His own contented hum almost makes her still the movement of her foot on his leg. She starts to think she's not wholly surprised at the increase of his hand's pressure before.. Her brain stutters abruptly to a halt.

Oh. _Oh._

His other hand curls and folds into her hair without warning, gently pulling her head back again until her lips brush over his. She's so giddy with the sensation of the pull -- _right there,_ her mind purrs languidly, _oh yes_ \-- that she can't help lick those lips that were so careful with her before. She hesitates a second, after. Worries she's gone too far when his hand stills on her spine and pulls away. Feels rather silly for it a moment later when his hand crashes back onto her body, gripping the curve of her hip, and he shifts underneath her to be closer to her. The renewed taste of his lips on hers is hungry, roving over her with exceedingly more pressure than he exercised before.

She can't help the smile that curves her lips, nor the fact that her nails now softly scrape and dig into the skin just above his shoulders. Can't help tangle her legs with him so entirely that she's sure they're going to have some extraction issues later. The laugh that bubbles up inside of her is giddy with relief. She makes an exasperated noise halfway between a mewl and discontent when he pulls away from her again.

"Someone sounds pleased with herself," he murmurs then. A hot flash shoots through her spine at the tone he takes with her, teasing and soft, and his voice sounds like the thrum of her blood in her ears. "Care to share, ma'am?"

It's the reverent title he bestows upon her that undoes her and remakes her in his arms. Her breath is almost knocked out of her when he draws soft circles on her hip and side. "I want this," she breathes in the air between them, "so bad that I feel like I'm going to murder you if your lips don't come back to mine in the next few seconds."

His laugh is throatier than she's ever heard from him before. "My better judgment's left the building." It's an admission of what she expected from the man who'd previously tried so hard to drive her away. Who'd spent a considerable amount of effort telling her the things worth holding onto. She can't help but think he was wrong. All these things turn into quicksand over time. Not him. He's as constant as the air in her lungs. He's not finished speaking. His hand trembles in her hair. "I feel like I'm going to die if I leave you."

"So don't go," she tells him.

She closes the little distance that exists between them without hesitation. Breathes a "stay" onto his lips that is filled with all the desperation and longing she can manage to give voice to. She needs him to. Needs this to exist a little while more. Pushes herself up slightly. He falls back on the pillow. Her hair curtains his face in streaks of gold.

She shifts her body to accommodate the new position. Laughs when he lets out his own noise of longing at the shift and tilt of her hips into his body. Buries her face in the side of his neck to breathe him in. He's night sky and copper and the smell of thunder in summer heat -- dangerous, explosive, _hers_. She sighs contently before pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below his ear.

Good. This is all good.

He seems to think so, too, for his "as you wish" leaves a trail on her skin she can't ever erase.

This is home.


End file.
